


Winter

by TheThirdGreywaren (ShelbyDraven)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyDraven/pseuds/TheThirdGreywaren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are terrible, dark, selfish thoughts that Dorian had, he knew, and his grip tightened slightly around the sleeping form of the Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tumblr post: http://ash818.tumblr.com/post/104827893042/imagine-your-otp-huddled-under-a-thick-down
> 
> [Imagine your OTP huddled under a thick down comforter, noses pink with cold in the chilly room and the first snow frosting the windows. Imagine one pressing close to the heat of the other’s bare back and, out of nowhere, the thought surfaces: Outlive me, please.  
> There is no danger pacing at the door and no shadow hanging over their heads. But they have watched the trees turn bare these last few weeks, felt the nights grow longer and the darkness deepen, and it’s hard not to notice how all things have their endings.  
> I’ll be frightened at the end, the words float to mind, and I’ll need you there. I think I could be brave if you held me.  
> Eyes closed tight to hide the selfish thought behind them: Please outlive me.]

Dorian truly dreaded winters in the South.

He would have appreciated Tevinter’s warm sun and clear skies about now, instead of the stormy overcast and bitter winds. Not to mention that it was slightly depressing to see Skyhold’s garden wither or shed its leaves.

Winter brought death to the fortress. From flowers to patrolling guards around Orlais and Ferelden, it seemed that everything wilted and fell.

At least in was warm in the Inquisitor’s room.

Mahanon Lavellan was good at tending to a fire, Dorian had to admit. The crackle of the flames was comforting, along with the steady breathing of the sleeping elf beside him. Dorian himself could not find sleep, so he settled for lying silently alongside Mahanon. He was trying - and failing - to ignore that howling wind outside that made him shiver slightly at the thought of the cold air.

Mahanon made a gentle sound in his sleep, a small smile gracing his face, and Dorian found himself smiling as well. He wrapped his arm around the elf, savoring the warmth that radiated off him like a walking furnace.

The fire’s faint glow reached them, and Dorian felt his smile falter at the sight of the scars spilling over Mahanon’s body. He had been in countless battles, and his body showed it.

Not that Dorian minded. He admired the collection of scars Mahanon carried around, knowing that at one point that long, thin scar on his chest was fresh and painful, but he had survived.

Mahanon always survived. It was almost ridiculous, the record the elf had, but Dorian was grateful that Mahanon had survived until now. He was warm and very much alive, sleeping in Dorian’s arms, where he belonged.

Yet a dark thought crossed his mind.

 _Please outlive me_.

There was no reason to think such dark things, not when they were both alive and well and actually had a moment to themselves. For now, danger did not lurk among the shadows or under the bed.

Still, Dorian prayed that Mahanon outlived him.

Many times had he thought the elf dead, only to see him bounce back whether hours or weeks later, still wonderfully fierce and snarky. The despair and terrible gnawing guilt took much longer to fade to the background, though.

As of today, right now, he hasn't yet lost Mahanon forever, but he already can tell that he will shatter. The man next to him was intoxicating, consuming, the sculptor that molded Dorian into the man that was no longer living a lie. Without him? Not only will Thedas crumple, but so will Dorian.

“Don’t die on me, _amatus_ ,” Dorian breathed, so softly that the crackling of the fire and Mahanon’s calm breathing overwhelmed the words and washed them away.

These are terrible, dark, selfish thoughts that Dorian had, he knew, and his grip tightened slightly around the sleeping form of the Inquisitor.

Death was a terrifying idea to Dorian already, but the idea of dying alone, without his _amatus_ there to sedate his fears? That was absolutely petrifying, right up there with losing Mahanon first.

Hopefully that will never occur, Dorian thought with a quiet sigh.

“Dorian?” Mahanon’s voice was thick with sleep, and Dorian gently kissed Mahanon’s shoulder, continuing up his neck before nuzzling the chuckling elf’s hair, to assure him that he was there, and he would not be leaving anytime soon.


End file.
